Liebestod
by Annie loves it
Summary: They had year's worth of things to say to each other, and no way to do so. That is, until a bout of restlessness and several glasses of whiskey answer unasked prayers. The war going on outside pales in comparison to the one in their minds.RoyxEd, Post CoS
1. Chapter 1

_Feel and see you not?  
Can it be that  
I alone  
Hear this wondrous,  
Glorious tone,  
Softly stealing,  
All revealing,  
Mildly glowing,  
From him flowing  
Thro' me pouring  
Rising, soaring,  
Boldly singing,  
Round me ringing?  
…_

_They are rising, _

_High around me,_

_Shall I breathe them,_

_Shall I hear them?_

-Tristan and Isolde/ Wagner

**Liebestod**

Letters: compilations of words and thoughts that all together amount to something- useless. Words and thoughts and idle conversation that is absolutely, utterly, _useless_. It's pitiable really, considering all those moments, hours, upon hours, days to years' worth of fucking time that could have been utilized-

And now even a letter won't get him very far.

The sound of paper crumpling- a crunching and almost crying sound- is heard for the billionth time that night. Although he cannot see his hand doing the actual destructive motion (for it is his left hand and his left eye only sees his mistakes) he knows he is forcing the paper into a ball. A ball of tree shreds, ink, and whiskey stains. His right eye however is ever aware of the said whiskey, with its ice swimming and clinking in the glass as his hand swirls it. In a swift motion he tosses the paper across the office of his home study and knocks back the half full glass, draining its contents without so much as _flinching_. The burn pierces his throat stronger than any fire alchemy.

Slamming the glass back down on the desk, he leans forward in his chair and plants his elbows on the sleek, dark wooden surface, dropping his head into his palms.

Words were swarming his head; like a million dead fish in a polluted sea, all belly-up and floating to the surface to taint the world with their stench. Foul, _useless_ words that he had been meaning to say for _years_ and in all that time he had been too cowardly to say them, and in turn let them _rot_.

He wanted to shout in agony, but when he opened his mouth his throat protested from abuse; how much of that whiskey bottle had he drained? His lungs felt like he had eaten dust off the floor of a tomb. So there he sat with his mouth open, breathing in a way that was somewhere between a sob and a dry-heave.

One more deep breath and he slammed his fists down on the desk. He _had_ to write this letter, and damn it he would. From his already opened drawer he managed to fumble out another piece of paper, and after placing it gently before him he grasped his pen.

Pen to paper, pressure to pen and ink was formed. The writing could have been read like a stutter- his gloveless hands shaking and his eyesight being limited to his one eye.

_Where ever you are, you should know that I hate you for being there. _

He scratched that out. Too honest, too mean. There had been plenty of arguments between them, but he refused to stoop to the younger man's immature method of provocation.

_Ever since I noticed your jaw shaping, and the way your eyes began to harden with age, I have thought of you most inappropriately._

The general scratched that out too; far too blunt and it would have earned him punch in the gut and then a knee to the neck.

_Can you hear me? In that place you sacrificed yourself for, can you hear this? _

_I'm in the worst way_

Before he could think of what more to say, the pen fell from his hands and rolled off the desk, as he himself slumped to the side and hit the floor. His vision blurry, he noted how the light of the bold flame set in his fireplace seemed to be mocking him.

-x-

As softly as a phantom, pressure was on his lips and his nose. Snapping his eyes open, he met a brilliant gold. Within an instant, the soft pressure turned violent as jaw met jaw and teeth met teeth and tongue met tongue, and every ounce of hate, every bit of longing was unleashed.

-xx-

The candle light flickered, arrogant in its importance, as it was the only light source in the room. The blond sighed, waving his hand over the top of the flame, playing with the fire out of sheer boredom. His metal hand was curled into a fist, supporting his head as he sat at his desk.

Before him lay a blank piece of stationary and a fountain pen.

His brother lay asleep in one of the two small beds in the room, pushed to the far wall with a window. The younger man breathed quietly, a reassuring and soothing sound to the has-been alchemist.

The wide golden eyes sharpened and curiously he stopped his hand, placing his palm over the tip of the flame.

To his annoyance the burn seemed to be lacking.

Sighing he retracted his hand and grasped his pen. Glancing down at the paper he internally groaned; he was either really sick in the head, or very, very foolish. Foolish and sad. Regardless, he shrugged his shoulders as if to say _fuck it_ and pressed the tip of the pen to the paper.

Sleep had begun to evade him, months and months ago. His mind had become a cesspool of thoughts; so many flooring thoughts, like the gate was stuffing his cranium _again_, and every intrinsic and extrinsic notion was making itself known at all times. Yet even with all of these things to say and scream and cry about, all he could do was stare at the pen, poised and ready against the paper.

There was a lot he wanted to say, so _fucking much he should say_ and no way to do it. So he sat there like the dunce he was and glared at the paper, willing it to burn away and rid him of its overbearing persistence. For it could do him no good, because the time wasn't now, it had been then. Then, when they had tip-toed around each other, drawn in by a tango of lust, yet still distanced by that underlying _fear_ of reality. Truth was, responsibility was a bitch, and neither of them could have ever backed down from their promises; to friends, to brothers, to themselves, to the piece-of-shit world.

So between them the fire smothered, and the seas never parted.

And they left every God Damn thing unsaid. So now, years and -years- later, as he was closer to the age the Colonel-Bastard had been then, he found himself in a desperate state of regret.

He tucked the long strand of gold that brushed irritatingly against his cheek back and behind his ear. The rest of his long hair fell down his back and over his shoulders, unrestrained as he had pulled out his tie _much_ earlier in frustration. Proof of his frustration could be found in the mound that was building up of his crumpled paper-wasted in his futile efforts to get words out of his head. His brother would no doubt scold him come morning for his foolish waste of precious resources.

He scoffed internally at that; many things here had become a scarce resource; paper, food, clothing, fuel, and _trust_.

Finally, as he began to notice just how hard he was working to keep his eyes open, with a deep breath (and another for good measure) he let his hand move. So much to say, why not start with anything?

_I really, really wish I could see your face right now so I could slug you a good one. Because I'm sure you'd have that fucking smirk on, and you know I fucking hate it when you smirk. So I'd punch you._

With a smirk of his own, he scribbled that out.

_Are you at war too?_

He frowned at that, for he wasn't quite sure what he meant by it (because there was a really big war brewing outside, festering and gaining strength as people were being persecuted, homes burnt and shops destroyed. But he felt like his thoracic and abdominal regions were duke-ing it out internally, too.) He chose not to scratch it out, to preserve ink of course. Everything was a valuable resource.

_I'm sure you would like it here; it use to be all fancy-shmancy and what not, and all the women were once gorgeous.  
It's all dark and dreary at the moment however, and the air always seems to smell like gunpowder. _

This he scribbled out, considering the Colonel-Bastards history with Ishbal, the blond was certain the statement would be offensive. He also didn't like the idea of the asshole gallivanting around with females (every other person but him).

_I hate this place, but if I leave_

He decided not to finish that. The answer was a heavy one in his heart and he could internalize it all he wanted, but observing it in written form would take him over the edge. (Because people need me right now, and Al needs me, and this is my world now so this is my responsibility too.)

Using his automail hand to wipe at his eyes, full of frustrated tears, he pushed the fountain pen down with more pressure than he had intended, and ink spurted across the page. With a silent curse, he utilized the bottom third of the paper that remained untarnished.

_There's a lot I should have said to you. Mainly more about how big of a conniving dick you are.  
I wish I could say those things to your face._

Tossing down the pen into the puddle of ink, he placed his flesh palm over the flame again, snuffing out the fire. In the blanket of darkness, he leaned back in his wooden desk chair, counting Alphonse's breaths.

-xx-

When Ed had found himself standing in the Colonel's office, he should have been surprised. He shrugged it off, considering the high probability he was a dream. The atmosphere was heavy, yet not overbearing, and the night disturbed only by the fire ablaze in the hearth.

The bastard was passed out on the couch. Without a hesitation, the blond made his towards the older man, straddling the hips clad in military blues. Boldly, Ed lay over him, nose just barely touching nose, and lips teasing the older man's. Everything he had always wanted to do, and to say, before him. Dare he? Dark eyes snapped open, and that was all the urging he needed. Within an instant, the soft pressure turned violent as jaw met jaw and teeth met teeth and tongue met tongue, and every ounce of hate, every bit of longing was unleashed.

If this was all he could get, a surreal dream that allowed him only a fleeting moment, Ed would take it.

Confessions in the form of sarcastic remarks overcame them both, and they were both lost in a mix of urgent kissing and the need to get every word in while they could. Between pants and bites and pressure all those things, all of those suffocating thoughts seemed to be exchanged. They could not hear, yet both men were very away of every miniscule vibration. They were blinded by the flame in the fireplace, yet every shadow of the other was ablaze.

The exchanged between them every idea, every moment, every lie, and every truth, and whether it was hours or seconds, everything came undone.

-xx-

_What is that world like, Fullmetal?_

A kiss to his forehead and another kiss over the black cloth of his eye patch. Lips then hovered, as though afraid, over his own.

Every microtubule of his very being was on fire, and he swore he could feel every hair, every freckle, and every pigment of the tan skin settled over him.

He would have cursed himself for ruining the mood, but really, as it was a figment of his imagination, why not take advantage of it?

_Dull._ The blond finally responded, planting another soft kiss on the general's lips.

_Terrible._ The blonde continued, brushing his flesh hand along the bare chest beneath him.

_And there is so much noise,_ complained the blond, as he lay forward, trailing kisses down the flame alchemist's neck.

_But it is so fucking silent_. With this, the older man, _the much, much older man_, flipped them over, grasping his once subordinates' thighs, securing one entirely human leg and another entirely fake around his waist.

They were naked-utterly, shamelessly bare before each other, and had been so for what felt like ages that night (yet like seconds at the same time). Roy held himself above Ed on his elbows, staring down into golden eyes as if he had two eyes of his own still. With a smirk, the blond reached up and gripped the eye patch and tore it from the general's head. Before he could complain, Ed kissed him.

_Are you going to disappear?_ Ed frowned.

_I've been wondering the same._

Roy could tell they were both stalling, but had no idea what to do for it. His head was swirling. He felt dizzy and overwhelmed, like all those dead fish were alive and thriving and _hungry_.

Ed, who had been staring at him with a curious expression, suddenly smirked and 'hmphed.'

_Are you gonna just sit there? Or are you going to show me why your last name is Mustang?_

-x-

_Live on, live on, and survive!_

_x-_

A pain in his neck woke him, and he knew it was the kind that would ache for _days_. As consciousness began to find him once more, he made note of empirical evidence as it came in.

_Neck, hurts like hell, head, hurts like _fuck all_, lower back is a mess, room smells like booze _(this thought made him gag, as the very idea of alcohol had his stomach just _raging_), _the only light source came from the dying fire, and since the draped windows had no light peaking through, it is not yet the next day._

Good for him, because he was in no mood to hear the safety of Hawkeye's gun being clicked off. Being late tended to influence these things.

In testament to his strength and will, he sat up despite his protesting body. He needed water, and aspirin, and fuck, maybe one more glass (he cursed himself here, as he dry-heaved at the thought).

His dream had been a painful one to endure, all though a pleasant one to his sensations. It had been unbearably vivid, and this he blamed on some hidden, masochistic need to be punished on a constant basis.

The scent though, had been so damn _real. _After so long, it had been like inhaling glass shards. The voice too, had been perfect. Deep, aged yet still coated with and edge of annoyance and adulterated often with obscenities. Such a _loud_ voice, and it had seemed as if it had serenaded the night to him.

With a heavy heart, the general sighed.

Grasping the desk, he pulled himself up with great effort. Rubbing his face, he felt the uncomfortable stubble across his cheeks and jaw, and the odd sensation of _scar tissue_. Gasping, he understood that his eye patch was gone.

Looking down at the desk, he found the letter he had been writing, full of unintelligible lettering, and scratched out paragraphs and-

A handwriting, not his own. All over the paper, like a conversation had been recorded on every inch of the page. He flipped it over to find the other side in the same state. Words, sentences, letters, everywhere, and there was no way to make sense of any of it. The other handwriting had written several things, scratched them out, and tried again, only to repeat this process. A single word here, several sentences there, and none of it made sense. The top half of the paged looked as though ink had been spilled over it. Then he noticed on the corner of the sheet one of the only clear sentences.

_I hope you get chicken pox on your testicles, damn Colonel-Bastard-shitface._

The flame alchemist laughed, remembering exactly how lust filled and absolutely _wild_ Ed's eyes had looked when he had said that.

-x-x-

Ed woke with his back aching and his neck throbbing angrily. Sitting up, he groaned at the realization that he had fallen asleep in a mess of ink, and that he most likely was covered on the left side of his face. It would be a bitch to clean up.

Observing his surroundings, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he noted it was still night. His brother was still fast asleep.

Throwing his arms up, he stretched his torso and back, allowing a silent yawn. Patting around, his fingers grasped the box of matches set to the side of the desk. Pulling one out he carefully struck it against the box, flame crackling to life in a manner that inspired a certain longing in his stomach, and he lit the tip of the candle. Blowing the match out, Ed glanced at his desk.

Then he stared. Then he _glared_.

What a sick joke his mind was playing on him.

The paper in front of him, although the top portion was covered in dry ink and the side had a rather noticeable cheek print, was scribbled entirely with nonsensical words and sentences, half scratched out, and the other half undistinguishable, in a shaky and drunken handwriting.

'_Tell me everything, from that faraway land. I want to hear it all.'_

_-x-x-x-_

To continue or not? Meh… I've been dying to write EdxRoy twisted demented shit for ages. Although I prefer the manga and the brotherhood anime series to the original anime series, by far, the original series plus CoS is just perfect for angst.

The idea for this story was heavily influenced by Rin Seina's many a glorious doujinshi. Please check them out!

This may just be a one shot, but I may continue? I don't want to make promises. I'm a college student with little life, see.

Also, forgive me if the name is too cliché. I didn't just pick a random German word, promise. Look it up :D

Please leave constructive criticism, or thoughts, but don't tell me I need a beta, because I know I do. Unless of course you wanna be my beta for random installments of this story?

Cookies if you get the references.


	2. Chapter 2

_All credibility, all good conscience, all evidence of truth come only from the senses._

-Friedrich Nietzsche

**Liebestod**

-_The Night before the Letter-_

Sitting in a grey room lit by a single, flickering bulb that dangled from the ceiling (so fucking _cliché,_ these Nazis), should be unnerving. However, at his age, after all the _shit _he'd been through, he was far from concerned for his personal wellbeing and more so for his brother's.

He should have seen it coming and should have packed up and _ran_ the first time Al had suggested it. Hindsight being what it is, there was a whole lot of would 'a, should 'a, could 'a, but that wasn't helping him now.

They came in the night, much like Edward _should_ have figured they would (again with the damn _clichés)_ and thrown bags over their heads. There was a struggle; Edward and Alphonse were in great shape, thank you very much, despite their malnourished circumstances as of late, but they were easily subdued with butts of lugers to the backs of their heads. Tension had permeated the atmosphere of Bavaria (of _Europe) _the entire time Edward had been in that world, but arrogance and interest had kept him stubbornly rooted. Arrogance, because he was a stubborn fool (easier to admit when you're tied up) and believed he could single-handedly teach these people what was up and down. Interest, interest for the way the world worked. He'd be a rotten liar if he said he hadn't enjoyed his work with Herr Bohr, Ficher and Tropsch. Arrogance because he needed to (thus he thought he could) find that damn _bomb_ and interest because his hand in pointing out that matter interacted on a basis of _subatomic particles_-

"Ah, Herr Elric, good to see you're awake." Edward's head snapped up and a snarl ripped from his throat. The door was opened all the way, revealing a young soldier grasping the handle stiffly as his superior walked in, boots clicking on the cement floor. The ranking officer was looking nonchalantly through a manila folder (_cliché cliché cliché)_, as he walked to the wooden table.

"Now I must apologize for our _unorthodox_ method of acquiring your person, but I'm sure you can understand. People have a reputation of disappearing when called upon by myself or my peers." The man's thin lips curled into what once may have been a kind smile, and he tossed the folder down on the table. The door clicked shut, locking Edward was sure, and the _Schutzstaffel _swung the spare chair around and sat in it backwards, knees just centimeters away from his own.

_Unorthodox? Late night raids are more like your religious practice you crooked-nosed-Nazi-bastard._

The two sat in thick silence as the officer glowered at him, strong jaw set firmly in place, as if he were expecting Edward to talk. Ask questions. Edward had too much pride for that, so he stared back.

More silence.

The officer sighed. His badges moved with the dramatic shrug of his shoulders and his hazel eyes closed in exasperation (if Edward was correct, this man was a _Standartenführer_).

"Your lack of curiosity concerns me. Most people I bring in are sobbing and shouting, overwhelmed with questions," the colonel paused to adjust his face in mock distress, "they all cry 'Why am I here, what have I done, I have my papers!'" The officer's eyes fell back upon Edward's, amused. "You seem not at all phased, Herr Elric."

Edward continued to remain expressionless, staring back just as intently. The colonel's face was long and square cut, with only a few lines of age (_a somewhat young colonel then_). His hair was mousy brown and short, parted from the right side and greased back. The way he observed Edward, like he was reading an encyclopedia inspired comparison.

_Not like the colonel-bastard, not even in the same fucking _league_, you piece of shit._

"Well, lacking curiosity is all for the better I suppose. I will simply tell you all that I would have answered should you have asked _anyway_, and your silence thus far shows me your penchant for not speaking, especially while I am." The colonel snatched the folder from the table in one hand, and with the other extracted a paper from inside. The hands were gloved (_with leather, practical for this world's colonel, not for shit-for-brains back home)._

"This paper is why you are here. It states briefly your rendezvous with some of Europe's academies, as well as your Englishmen acquaintances." Edward stiffened a fraction: _he's not implying…_

"It is my duty to, with this information, draft your services in the name of the Greater Reich, and inform you of your duties, which will be effective immediately." Without the intention to, Edward's eyes widened and his jaw dropped just slightly. This of course did not go unnoticed. The colonel smirked, returning the paper back to its folder.

"You spent time in the United Kingdom Herr Elric, and are well accustomed to Cambridge University and its academic circles, thanks to Van Hohenheim, am I correct?" The question was rhetorical. Leave it to Hohenheim to screw him from beyond the grave. "This is in addition to all of your work thus far in fields of mathematics, physics, chemistry, and most specifically rocketry and nuclear science."

-_1929_-

_"Mr. Elric, Mr. Elric! Do wait up!" _

_Sure, stalking out of a lecture room that had six or seven of the most elite students and professors present was not only foolish and rude, but cause for concern, this Edward was sure of. He had been personally invited by a professor; it was a means of discussing academia over tea in a setting of those most capable the man had said, and Edward out of respect for the old Englishmen was obliged to amuse him. _

_However, all notion of obligation was forgotten after stepping into the room, for there gracing an amused smirk was the one face Edward feared meeting most in this world. Electric black hair was slicked back in a manner more becoming of this world's more formal wear. The slight slant to the eyes crowned by one or two fine lines, marking him at roughly the age the bastard should be by now. Some of the other men allowed themselves to appear more relaxed, discarding jackets to reveal waistcoats and rolled sleeves and loosened bow ties and folded collars, but not this man. Light brown trousers and matching jacket over a grey waistcoat (with a goddamnpocketwatch the _nerve_ of this bastard), high collar with a red silk tie knotted and tucked under the V of the waistcoat. He was sitting leisurely in that wooden chair, like it was the most comfortable god damn chair this side of kingdom come, legs crossed, leaning back with one arm bent at the elbow and supporting his head with a fist, the other hand resting around the china cup on the stool next to him. The men sat in a circle: the students were obvious by their youthful appearances and the way they stared in absolute awe at the man, the professors with a fond respect. _

_Yes, Edward, fool he was, walked in, announced "Pardon my tardiness gentlemen," and was halfway down the steps when he finally _looked_ and _saw_. Saw his nightmare, glancing up at him with mild curiosity, but still nursing that goddamnsnarkyasssmirk. So, eyes widening, he halted, sputtered, grasping for words, stammering a quick, "do excuse me again," and with a turn of his heel he fucking ran._

_Of course, he didn't get very far._

_"Mr. Elric," Edward stopped, cursed any, every higher being that ever existed and turned, waiting for the man to catch up. The bastard, for having walked rather briskly to catch up to Edward's halfrunhalfwalk (fuck the bastard's long legs) still managed to ooze the 'well put together' look, with the addition of flushed cheeks and a slight pant. Straightening his jacket once he was within hand shaking distance, he looked Edward straight in the eyes and smiled. _

_"I'm assuming you have a pressing appointment that you're on your way to-"_

_"Right, yes that's it," Edward interrupted, nodding in agreement. Every cell of his body language was shouting 'Get the fuck away from me!' as he stood half turned toward the man, half in the direction he was rushing to._

_The man, recovering from the interruption with a facial expression akin to disbelief, held out a book towards Edward. "You dropped this from your bag, and considering your urgency to leave it was doubtful that you would return for it," Edward stepped forward to snatch the book, only to find it pulled out of reach. Glaring daggers at the bastard, the older man just smirked back. "Let me introduce myself," he held out his free hand, "Roy Mustang, alum of Trinity College, and often a guest lecturer at it and some of the other colleges." _

_Smug, pompous bastard. Edward eyed the hand narrowly, and after a few moments of tense silence finally grasped it, shaking it firmly once before letting go. Roy's smirk widened._

_"I have heard a great number of things about you, and have had the pleasure of reading some of your research publications from your student time here at Cambridge and the University of Copenhagen. When our colleagues back their informed me of your identity, I must admit I was shocked at your, hmm, age and _stature_, considering your advanced accomplishments." If it weren't for the crowds of people passing by, and the last bit of conscience in Edward that cried for the appearance of propriety, he would have beat the _shit_ out of the bastard._

_"I am _not too short_ for the level of science I have been involved in, Mr. Mustang, nor too young, rest assured, but I am running late for that urgent appointment, so if you could kindly get to your point." Edward was bristling, like a cat held over water, and had his jaw clenched in a manner that should have appeared threatening, but Roy merely took a step closer. Not intimate, just merely not intimidated. This did not please Edward._

_Fucking pompous asshole bastard, shit-for-brains-prick, good for nothing, no different-_

_"As much as I respect him, I don't usually bother with Sir Farr's chemist tea-parties, but he made mention of your likely attendance and I came for the sole reason of meeting you," Blunt, manipulative, bastard, "so if you would be so kind, I would love the opportunity to discuss matters of your research with you in a more relaxed setting. When will you find yourself free of 'urgent appointments'?"_

_"These days it seems like never." Edward snapped, eyeing the book held high in the air with impatience. Roy's smirk recoiled slightly._

_"Have I offended you?"_

_"Severely,"_

_"How so? Whatever it was, I apologize. I merely wish to make your acquaintance. You're an intelligent and notable young man-"_

_"Cut the crap," the sheer rudeness of the remark wiped the smirk entirely off, inspiring a smirk of Edwards own._

_"I beg your pardon,"_

-_1939_-

"You were recommended to us by an old friend of yours, and ours. You remember Herr Heisenberg, yes, from your visiting days in Copenhagen?" The colonel glowed in self-satisfaction as he stood, swinging the chair back under the table.

"You are a smart man, Herr Elric, and your intelligence will do us well."

Annoyance and frustration got the better of Edward, and he was never one for patience or choice word selection.

"The fuck makes you think I'll do what you say? I'm no dog colonel, and I make a shitty soldier." This is the one question it seemed the _Standartenführer_ most looked forward to, for he smiled a toothy smile.

"You will be in agreement with all of the terms of your draft and duty to the Reich, or you and your brother will meet the other end of the gun."

-x-x-x-

Edward should have seen this coming, should have guessed it would. He should have bought the first ticket to Zurich. He was never very good at the strategic bullshit; that was always colonel shit for brains' job.

-x-x-x-

"Your brother is also quite the intelligent resource, and his services will be required here, at headquarters. His safety is a guarantee, so long as your cooperation is as well."

-x-x-x-

He should have known all of that research, all of that studying and lab work and academic bullshit in search of something that didn't even exist here yet would fuck him over in the end.

-x-x-x-

"Your training will begin immediately, and once you are escorted to intel they will further describe your duties. You will be deployed within six weeks, so make the necessary arrangements. You will tell no one the circumstances of your draft. If inquiries are made you supply them with the statement 'I have been called to serve our nation in its time of need.' Am I clear?"

-x-x-x-

Looks like he was off to Berlin. Fuckin' Hohenheim. Fuckin' Heisenberg. Fuckin' Nazi-bastard.

-_1929_-

_"Just give me the damn book Mr. Mustang." Said man studied Edward closely, another heavy silence draping them. Edward glared back._

_And then, Mustang laughed._

_"Of course Mr. Elric, I understand," the hand holding the book dropped, and Edward took the opportunity to quickly retrieve it, "forgive my assertiveness. Let me make it up to you, how about with a pint?"_

_-The letter-_

_Tell me everything, from that faraway land. I want to hear it all._

_All? All what? What could you possibly give a damn about, Colonel Bastard? _

_All sorts of things. And that's Lieutenant General now, mind you._

_Whatever. You're still a rotten bastard. Just 'cause you manipulate your way through the ranks…_

_I never claimed not to be. I will protest the manipulation however; the coup left a wide opening in the higher ups, and I was a natural selection for the different positions. This however, is not the point. There's a lot we've to talk about._

_I really don't know where to begin. _

_Nor do I._

_I've been suckered into the military again._

_Really now, what've you done this time that has attracted that kind of attention to you?_

_Is that a hint of concern, Colonel-Bastard? Regardless, I was really only expressing my superior level of intelligence (yet again) and they (much like yourself) saw the advantage of drafting me._

_Drafting? Is it a time of war there? Are you all right?_

_Of course it's war, dipshit, and yes I'm all right. If you'd been doing your math you'd know I'm damn near thirty six by now and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. _

_Still sound like a snot-nosed, shrimpy brat to me._

_Fuck you, you ancient bag of flesh. _

_Tell me more, micro-bean._

-x-x-x-

_Is Wagner a human being at all? Is he not rather a disease? He contaminates everything he touches - he has made music sick. I postulate this viewpoint: Wagner's art is diseased._

- Friedrich Nietzsche

-x-x-x-

Well fuck me. Not sure how to explain this. The previous chapter and this one after are rather disconnected of course. But honestly, this story has been plaguing my mind for freaking months, and I needed to answer the call. I'm a world war two nut.

Problem is, this kind of project calls for heavy research, and I just haven't the time at the moment. I'm balancing seventeen credits as it is. This chapter was written entirely from background knowledge only, so if you see any discrepancies, I call creative immunity . If you are confused at all and need me to explain anything, do message me. Personally I get annoyed with authors who explain circumstances, because the work should be self-explanatory. However, I understand my own reputation for evasiveness.

Again, forgive the disconnection between chapters; this is purely for my amusement.

Also **I do not have a beta**, but would appreciate one. If you have suggestions or find errors (I'm sure there are several) please let me know, I've never had a way with grammar. ALSO if you'd like to be my beta, I would forever be at your mercy.


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